#11 – Before I had a kid, I knew everything about raising one

PAPACITO #11

Before I had a kid of my own, raising children seemed remarkably easy.

Especially other people's children.

I had a solution for pretty much everything.

If a child wouldn't sleep, you put them to bed. If they wouldn't listen, you told them more firmly. If they screamed, you calmed them down. If a family was always late because of their kid, they should simply leave earlier.

And if a child was running the entire family's schedule, perhaps the parents shouldn't give them so much power?

Easy.

Then the Toothless Troublemaker was born, and my parenting consultancy went bankrupt.

WHY DOESN'T HE JUST SLEEP?

This remains one of life's greatest mysteries to me.

When I'm tired, I go to sleep.

The more tired I am, the more I want to sleep.

Apparently, babies work the other way around.

The more exhausted a baby gets, the more mysterious reserves of energy they somehow find to make absolutely fucking sure they don't accidentally fall asleep.

For example, we were eating at a restaurant a little while ago. The Toothless Troublemaker was absolutely knackered. You could see it in his eyes. The little guy desperately needed some sleep.

Into the stroller, then.

Shushing.

Walking.

A little more walking.

Walking somewhere quieter, in case a calmer environment might help.

Nope.

There was simply too much happening around him. New people, noises, lights and fascinating things that clearly couldn't be missed for something as utterly insignificant as sleeping.

And then we crossed into overtired territory.

Fortunately, no actual crying, but otherwise the full performance.

Whining, wriggling, loud babbling, pulling faces, twisting around in our arms, a little more whining...

Everything a person does when they're so exhausted they no longer have the slightest fucking clue what to do with themselves.

I knew exactly what to do.

JUST FUCKING SLEEP.

And this wasn't some isolated incident. We've witnessed similar performances before.

Then, when we were leaving the restaurant, we lifted the baby carrier into the car.

The carrier clicked into its base — click.

THAT VERY FUCKING SECOND, the little guy fell asleep...

Why don't you just sleep when you're tired?

I'm still asking.

The question remains open — and completely unanswered.

JUST LEAVE EARLIER

This, by the way, was one of my most brilliant pieces of advice before becoming a dad.

If families with children are constantly running late, why don't they just leave earlier?

Jesus fucking Christ, it's so simple.

These days I know that with a baby, departure time isn't an actual time.

It's a preliminary wish.

Especially when you genuinely need to be somewhere at a specific time.

Like baby swimming lessons.

Everything is ready. The bags should be packed. I'm dressed. All that's left is getting the baby dressed and into the car.

Then, just as you're pulling up the zipper on his snowsuit, you realize — for fuck's sake, he's shit himself...

Right then.

Clothes off.

Diaper off.

Wash his ass.

Fresh diaper.

Clothes back on.

And meanwhile, the departure time that seemed perfectly realistic just moments ago is waving goodbye as it disappears out the window.

Somehow, we've still managed to be on time practically every time so far, which I talked about in more detail in my previous post.

I'M NOT GOING TO MAKE A BIG FUSS

Before having a child, I'd sometimes look at all the stuff other parents bought for their kids and think:

"Oh, for fuck's sake. They've actually bought that useless shit for their kid..."

"A child doesn't need all that stuff."

Exactly.

Because these days, I own all that shit myself.

And usually a slightly better model or version, too — because every self-respecting man needs better equipment than his neighbor!

There's a toy car mat, baby monitors, clothes and all sorts of other absolutely essential things whose essential nature I knew nothing about just a year ago.

And toys.

Oh, there are toys.

We already have enough different balls to start a small ball pit.

And naturally, out of all the toys we've bought for the Toothless Troublemaker, one has emerged as the undisputed favorite — at least for now.

The dog's spiky ball.

The dog had practically never shown any interest in this particular ball before.

Then the Toothless Troublemaker discovered it.

Guess whether the dog suddenly finds it interesting, too?

You fucking bet he does.

There can be eight different balls scattered across the floor.

But both of them want that same fucking ball.

This time, negotiations ended with the Toothless Troublemaker getting exactly what he wanted.

But the little guy isn't completely heartless.

Apparently, he understood that the other party might now be feeling a little disappointed.

So he offered the dog another ball instead.

Rejected.

He offered another.

Rejected again.

Because even though there were eight balls lying around, the dog had the wrong one.

The ownership arrangements for toys in our household go something like this:

The dog's favorite toys are cat toys.

The Toothless Troublemaker's favorite toys are dog toys.

Papacito's favorite toys are children's toys.

From now on, I'm taking both of my children to the pet store on their weekly treat days.

They can each pick out a toy from Musti ja Mirri.

It'll probably be cheaper, too.

Because if there's one thing companies know how to charge an absolutely ridiculous amount of money for, it's fucking baby stuff...

During the pregnancy, I was wandering around a baby store when I spotted a really lovely little teddy bear.

"Oh, that's actually really nice!"

Then I checked the price.

Suddenly, it wasn't so nice anymore.

EIGHTY. FUCKING. EUROS?!

Yes — 80 euros for a stuffed teddy bear you could win from a claw machine at a fairground for two euros.

What the actual fuck was it made of? Some kind of cancer-preventing bamboo fiber? And more importantly, who the fuck knitted it... Saint Francis himself?

Anyway.

I survived that particular shock.

Until we had to buy something we actually needed — a stroller.

Stroller, infant car seat, rotating car seat base.

"Sold as a set."

Apparently, the same fucking Saint Francis had blown the whole thing out of glass using a straw, because the price tag certainly suggested as much.

I had to visit the store three separate times to haggle before I could bring myself to buy it.

By the third visit, I'd already provided so much friendly customer feedback, negotiated the price down and secured enough extras that even my conscience couldn't have handled walking away without buying anything.

Then there's the complete opposite extreme.

I'd seen videos of the MiniMeis shoulder carrier before the pregnancy and wanted one long before the Toothless Troublemaker even existed in liquid form.

"One day, my kid is going to have one of those."

And now he does.

The waiting was just fucking unbearable, because first I had to wait six months before the little guy was even old enough to start sitting up.

Let alone sit on my shoulders.

But the moment those six months were up, a brand-new model was waiting at our local parcel pickup point — whatever the fucking cost!

Naturally, I've learned a great deal from all this.

The Toothless Troublemaker's birthday is approaching, and we've been thinking about what to buy him.

Someone suggested I should "look for a second-hand one on Tori", Finland's online marketplace.

THE FUCK I WILL.

I'm looking for a brand-new model. The coolest, most badass balance bike in the entire neighborhood — WHATEVER THE FUCK IT COSTS!

Second-hand...

If every other kid has the same little green cucumber scooter, you can be absolutely fucking certain ours won't.

I want one that makes other people stop, stare and ask:

"WOW. Where the hell did you get one of those?"

So clearly, I've learned a fucking tremendous amount from this experience.

EVERYTHING IS SO FUCKING WONDERFUL

There was one thing about families with children that annoyed me even before I had a child of my own.

Or, more precisely, the image of family life that's presented these days.

Everything is so goddamn beautiful.

Everything has to be so fucking pretty.

Nobody dares tell a child no. Everything has to be negotiated, explained, emotionally processed and discussed like a meeting of the United Nations Security Council.

And that same softness seems to dictate what the entire family lifestyle is supposed to look like.

Everything is minimalist.

Colorless.

Odorless.

Tasteless.

The nursery is beige. The toys are beige. The clothes are beige.

If a color accidentally manages to sneak in somewhere, it's probably some dried-grass shade of beige with a name like "Summer Morning Meadow Dream".

Where the fuck did all the colors go?

When I was a kid, toys were red, yellow, blue and green.

These days, children are given a wooden, natural-colored, cancer-preventing teddy bear that costs 80 fucking euros and looks absolutely magnificent on Instagram.

Apparently, someone decided at some point that bright colors would burn a child's eyeballs out.

And then there are the social media influencers.

WHY THE FUCK DO YOU ALL WHISPER IN YOUR VIDEOS?!

"We've had a little bit of a challenging morning today..."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

If we're having a challenging morning, trust me, you can fucking hear it.

On social media, a family morning looks like sunlight gently filtering through linen curtains while Mom peacefully drinks her coffee and the child quietly examines some fucking wooden teddy bear — all natural, of course.

The parents gaze lovingly at each other over their coffee cups.

Everyone is wearing clean clothes — preferably some ridiculously expensive designer brand.

Nobody shouts.

Nobody swears.

Nobody steps on anything barefoot.

LIKE FUCK THEY DON'T.

Sometimes the baby screams.

Sometimes Papacito is pissed off.

Sometimes Mamacita is pissed off.

Sometimes everyone's fucking pissed off.

Sometimes the house looks like the police have conducted a full-scale raid.

Sometimes you just want to be completely alone for a moment.

And then, five minutes later, you find yourself missing the very same little human you were desperately trying to escape.

And I don't think there's anything wrong with that.

What pisses me off is this obsession with turning the whole thing into some perfect fairy tale.

It doesn't need to look good on Instagram.

It needs to work in real life — and in Papacito's blog.

Family life isn't beige.

It's mostly a collection of different-colored stains — usually shades of tomato-red macaroni casserole smeared across an orange onesie.

I'M DEFINITELY NOT GOING TO BABY-TALK

There was another thing I was absolutely certain about.

I wasn't going to start talking ridiculous baby nonsense.

I was going to speak to my child like a normal person.

These days, I walk around the supermarket pushing a shopping cart and talking to a human being who can't even answer me properly:

"Is that Daddy's little man right there? Is it? Is it?"

Well, so much for that.

The Toothless Troublemaker sits in the shopping cart and points at everything.

And I mean absolutely everything.

Pears.

"Oh, you want some pears? Well, of course we'll get some pears!"

A packet of Wilhelmi sausages.

"Oh, sausages? But buddy, you don't even have any teeth yet. How are you supposed to eat those? Once you grow some teeth, Daddy will buy you all the sausages you want."

Eggs.

"We've already got eggs at home. Mommy didn't write them on the shopping list. If they're not on the list, we can't risk buying them. We're not going rogue today, buddy."

And since the other participant in this conversation contributes nothing but little grunts, pointing and various mysterious noises, I naturally interpret everything exactly the way I want:

"Exactly. Peas. Who the fuck even wants those?"

"Oh, those crisps do look good, don't they? Should we grab a bag or two?"

"Yeah, that old lady is taking her sweet fucking time in front of us, but we probably shouldn't start shoving her out of the way just yet. Let's give her another minute."

On our last trip, we stopped to properly explore the fish and meat counter for the first time.

The Toothless Troublemaker stared wide-eyed at the whole fish on display.

Next to the counter was a refrigerated bin full of whole salmon in plastic bags.

I picked one up.

And because I still firmly believe I speak to my child like a perfectly normal human being, I started swimming that salmon toward the baby while speaking in a fish voice:

"I AM A SALMON. WHAT IS YOUR NAME?"

The childless version of me would probably have switched aisles — or supermarkets entirely.

The current version of me thought it was absolutely fucking hilarious.

And the worst part?

Talking complete nonsense to my baby has become one of my favorite things in the world.

BUT I WASN'T WRONG ABOUT EVERYTHING

This is probably the part where I'm supposed to tell you how having a child changed absolutely everything.

How I realized that all my old opinions were wrong.

IT FUCKING DIDN'T.

I still believe children need boundaries.

You're allowed to tell a child no.

In fact, you need to tell a child no.

There are things you're allowed to do and things you're not allowed to do.

Actions need to have consequences.

Children need to learn how to behave.

They need to learn how to deal with disappointment.

I want to raise a child who's brave enough to ask questions, because if you don't ask, you can't know.

Someone who's willing to try.

Someone who's willing to open his mouth and speak his mind, even when everyone else disagrees.

Someone who's tough but fair.

Honest.

Genuine.

Polite.

And above all, someone with a bit of fucking common sense.

I still believe in at least one extremely old-fashioned parenting method.

The word NO.

Two letters.

No pastel shades.

No emotion stickers.

No naughty step.

JUST FUCKING NO.

And I'm not backing down on that one.

Admittedly, the Toothless Troublemaker is still just a baby.

So let's revisit this in about fifteen years and see how fucking well this particular expert opinion has aged.

I WAS SUPPOSED TO TEACH HIM

Before having a child, I spent a lot of time thinking about what kind of father I wanted to be.

Strict but fair.

Funny.

Honest.

Someone who doesn't sugarcoat the world when it comes to things that actually matter.

And above all, someone who leads by example.

I've always believed children learn by watching — by observing the people around them.

If I want to raise a brave child, I need to show him what courage looks like.

If I want him to be brave enough to talk to strangers, ask for help, ask for directions, try new things and stop worrying so much about what other people think, I need to do those things myself.

There was just one thing I hadn't anticipated.

Because of the Toothless Troublemaker, I'm no longer afraid to do anything.

I was supposed to teach him courage by setting an example.

So far, he's taught me far more about it than I've taught him.

Maybe, in the end, we're raising two people here.

One of them just happens to be a little older and started out thinking he knew everything.

BEFORE I HAD A KID, I KNEW EVERYTHING ABOUT RAISING ONE

These days, I know a little more.

Or maybe, for the first time, I know just enough to understand how little I actually know.

Don't generalize when you haven't experienced something yourself.

Don't blame people when you haven't experienced it yourself.

You're allowed to have opinions.

God knows I have plenty — and I probably say them out loud far too often.

But you also need to be prepared to swallow your own words when life proves they were complete bullshit.

A little common sense will get you a long way.

Everything else is a bonus.

If I could tell my childless self one thing about all this, it would probably be:

You don't know a fucking thing about this yet, so don't even imagine you do.

Come back when you've finished raising your own child.

And until then, maybe keep your fucking mouth shut a little more often.

Except for one thing.

If a baby is tired, he should go to sleep.

I'm still absolutely certain about that.

The baby simply disagrees — and more importantly, he's fucking wrong.